


like salt in a wound

by shortinsomniacs (Liv_Golightly)



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family Drama, Family Feels, Jason and Marvin argue, Jason uses a slur, LGBT Themes, Light Angst, M/M, Some Fluff, Whizzer knows something is wrong, it's emotional, stepdad and son bonding moment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:08:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14182557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liv_Golightly/pseuds/shortinsomniacs
Summary: "So now what do you want me to do? Play pretend again? Because I’m not ashamed of you, Dad! It sounds like the only one ashamed of you is you."Marvin's not expecting an argument with Jason to end so badly. Cue Whizzer, who helps patch them up, in his own way.





	1. family trees and verbal fistfights

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for use of homophobic language. I do not own Falsettos. All rights go to its creators.

Jason is already sitting at your kitchen table when you get home on Friday. His red Chuck Taylors are strewn by the door, one three feet away from the other. You chuckle to yourself as you right them and set your briefcase down.

 

“Jason?” you call, announcing your presence.

 

“Hi, Dad,” he responds absentmindedly.

 

You make your way towards him. Though your relationship with Jason isn’t the most, uh, buddy-buddy, you’re certainly closer than you were. Your weekends with Jason had begun as awkward, stilted, uncomfortably silent affairs. Now, Jason seems genuinely happy to spend time with you— _it only took a fucking year and a half_ —but he’s certainly much more enthusiastic when he usually sees you than he’s being right _now_.

 

Jason is bent over a giant slab of blue poster board. He’s surrounded by lettering stencils, printouts of what appears to be the flags of a few different countries, and a slew of copic markers. His brow is furrowed, and he’s biting his lip.

 

“I hope those aren’t my good markers,” you say lightly.

 

“Nah,” Jason grins, looking up at you. “I took the cheap ones. I figured you might throttle me if I used the set that was, like, a million bucks.”

 

“Well, maybe not _throttle_ , but you’d be—”

 

“—grounded until college?”

 

You chuckle. “No, only if you wrecked them.”

 

“Good to know. By the way, Dad, why do you have a trillion sets of pastels?”

 

“They’re my favorite to draw with,” you shrug. “When I first met your mother, we were in an art class together, and she asked me that same question. Besides, I have a bunch of the cheaper sets after you destroyed my nice ones. And also used them to draw all over the documents I had to bring into briefings.”

 

“I was _three_ , Dad! I just thought they were weird sticks of chalk!”

 

You laugh and ruffle his hair. “Will thought that your drawing of an octo-unicorn was lovely. He said we should make it the firm mascot. Mr. Stein agreed.”

 

“Stein, Truman, Levitt, and Octo-Unicorn: Attorneys at Law,” Jason quips. “That has a nice ring to it.”

 

“So, what did you need my markers for, anyway?”

 

“We have to make a family tree for class,” Jason explains. “Except we have to add in where our families came from.” He points to the flags. “See? I have Russia and Ukraine for you, Austria for Mom, and Germany and France for Mendel.”

 

“Mendel’s French?”

 

“Uh-huh! He showed me his Mom’s star from the Holocaust. It has ‘ _Juif_ ’ written on it.”

 

“I didn’t know that.”

 

“Why would you, though? Aren’t you, like, supposed to talk about _yourself_ in therapy?”

 

You chuckle. “Yes, yes, I suppose that’s very true.”

 

Jason grins, and then picks up a piece of scrap paper and holds it out to you. “Look, I practiced drawing you guys!”

 

A lot of your downtime together, once Jason admitted to you that he’d like to learn how to draw, please, was spent with sketchbooks in hand and a blessed relief from constantly having to watch baseball. Jason’s uncanny skill for Geometry translated into drawing—his skylines are lovely. And while still portraits are more your thing, you find Jason’s cartoonishly realistic style of people to be delightful.

 

“It’s not as good as your people,” Jason admits, almost shyly. “But I think I finally got your nose right.”

 

“I think it’s great!” you encourage, ruffling his hair again. “And you might be the first person to actually get my nose right. Not even Whizzer can!”

 

Jason laughs, and then his eyes widen in excitement. “Oh! Dad! D’you know where Whizzer’s from? I have to add him, too!”

 

You bite your lip. _Oh, no._ “Oh, uh, well—no, Jason, I don’t.”

 

“That’s okay! I’ll ask him when he gets here!”

 

You and Whizzer have been back together since shortly after that fated baseball game, but he hasn’t officially moved back in yet. You won’t let him, not until you finish that anger management course with your new psychiatrist. But he does stay the night a few times a week, especially on weekends. Jason has missed him fiercely. And, admittedly, so have you. Things are slower this time around. Calmer. Kinder.

 

Like you’d enforced that Whizzer couldn’t move back in until you’d finished anger management, Whizzer had a stipulation, too: you had to admit, out loud, that you were gay. And, okay, maybe you cried just a little after, but Whizzer had kissed your cheek and said, “There we go, Marvin. No more lying, okay? No more hiding.” But—well, you don’t exactly want Jason’s _entire class_ to know that you’re gay. What’s going to happen to Jason when his class finds out that he has a homosexual father? Oh, God, how are the _other parents_ going to view you? You’re not _like_ Whizzer. He makes it seems so easy, sometimes.

 

“Jason,” you say softly, “I, um, don’t think it’s a great idea to add Whizzer to the tree, kiddo.”

 

Jason narrows his eyes, and his jaw sets the same way Trina’s does when you royally fucked something up. “Why not?”

 

“Well—he’s not exactly _related_ to you, Jason.”

 

Jason’s eyes practically roll into the back of his head. “Neither is Mendel, Dad.”

 

Fuck.

 

“No, but he’s married to your mother,” you concede.

 

“And that’s different from you and Whizzer _how_ , exactly?”

 

“We—Whizzer and I _aren’t_ married, Jason.”

 

Silently, your heart warms at Jason’s complete, absolute acceptance of Whizzer into your family, and the fact that he couldn’t care less that you’re—well, you. Gay. Homosexual. _Whatever._ But your stomach is sinking. You don’t know how to explain this to Jason. Even if he is too smart for his own good, he’s still _twelve_. You’re not entirely sure if he’s mastered the concept of shame, because he doesn’t seem to have much. What he does have, though, is a singular determination to see an argument through. It’s like talking to a fucking aggressive wall, sometimes.

 

Or, y’know, a tinier, snarkier version of you.

 

“You and Whizzer love each other a lot,” Jason says. “You cook together; you do dumb stuff like buy each other flowers or chocolate or whatever; you kiss each other before you leave for work; hell, you basically live together! He has a toothbrush in the toothbrush holder, Dad! I saw some of his shirts in the laundry basket! He’s gonna move back in eventually! He’s basically my, like, third dad! So why _can’t_ I put him on the tree? Huh? _Why not_ , Dad?”

 

You sigh. “Jason, it’s not that I don’t love Whizzer—”

 

“You’re not answering the question, Dad.”

 

“Jason—I, well, sometimes it’s hard when you’re—when you’re like me. And I, uh, I’m not sure that I want everyone to—to know—”

 

“—that you’re gay,” Jason finishes for you.

 

“Yes,” you say softly.

 

Jason’s silent for a few seconds. Then, angrily, he bursts out, “I don’t _get_ it!”

 

You raise an eyebrow. “I—what?”

 

“ _I don’t get it_!” Jason repeats, slamming his hands down onto the table.

 

“ _Jason_!”

 

“Don’t ‘ _Jason_ ’ me! You literally tore apart our family, Dad! You tore it apart so _you_ could go and be a homo, because that’s what you are! And then you left and mom had a nervous breakdown and you were like, ‘Everything is fine,’ even though it definitely wasn’t! Did you think I forgot the part where you slapped Mom? ‘Cause I didn’t. And you were all pissed ‘cause she was getting married and moving on after the mess _you_ caused! The mess you caused, because you didn’t want to admit you’re gay! So now what do you want me to do? Play pretend again? _Because I’m not ashamed of you, Dad!_ It sounds like the only one ashamed of you is _you._ ”

 

“Jason, that’s not—”

 

“Yes it is,” Jason spits out. “You’re nothing but a selfish _fag_.”

 

Your heart drops into your stomach.

 

“Jason,” you croak, “Jason, I—”

 

“Save it,” Jason snarls. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, Dad!”

 

He gets up out of his chair, pushes it roughly aside, and stomps down the hallway to his bedroom. He slams the door so hard that the pictures on the wall tremble. You don’t even have the heart to scold him.

 

You’d thought—well. You’d thought the two of you were actually getting along! You’d thought you’d become less of a jackass, and maybe more mature. And you’d thought that he was _okay_ with the whole “my-father-is-a-homosexual” thing! He seemed less pissed off about that than the fact that you and Trina were divorcing. Based off of what he just said, he’s still incredibly pissed off about that!

 

_But he called you_ that  _name,_ the voice inside your head sounds. _Clearly he’s not so okay with it, is he?_

 

Fuck.

 

Mendel had said once, during a session, that it might be a good idea to sit down with Jason and actually talk about this. Except you hadn’t, because you were too eager to get back to Whizzer. And, y’know, you and Trina couldn’t quite make it through a conversation without entering a bare-knuckle boxing match. It was a fucking miracle if the two of you could go two sentences without insulting each other.

 

Maybe you should’ve listened to Mendel.

 

But it’s too late for that now, because Jason is brooding in his room and you’re maybe kinda trying not to cry in the middle of your kitchen. Somehow, the rejection from Jason hurts a lot more than when you and Whizzer threw pawns across a chessboard and screamed.

 

Whizzer.

 

He’s going to be here soon for dinner, and he’s spending the rest of the weekend with you and Jason, like he does every week. It’d be fine if you and Jason hadn’t had a screaming match.

 

Well. More like Jason screamed and you stood there in horror, but what’s the difference, really?

 

 

When Whizzer appears at your door an hour and a half later, Jason bounds out of his room like he hasn’t just been brooding in his room for the past hour.

 

“Whizzer!” he says excitedly.

 

“Hey, buddy!” Whizzer grins, pulling Jason into a quick hug, which your son gratefully accepts. “I brought stuff for batting practice, if you wanted to try that out this weekend!”

 

“Awesome! Leo and I have been working on my swing.”

 

“That’s great! You’ll have to show me.” He steps inside and presses a kiss to your cheek. “Miss me, Marv?”

 

“You were only gone for twenty-four hours,” you tease.

 

“Excuse me?” Whizzer mock pouts. “I just sat on a broken-down 1 train for forty-five minutes just to see your sorry ass!”

 

“You weren’t saying that about my ass the other night.”

 

“Well, you _do_ have a great ass. And a great c—”

 

“ _Whizzer!_ ” Jason groans. “Oh my God, you guys, I’m literally _right here_!”

 

“Sorry, J,” Whizzer grins easily. “We promise not to make out in the kitchen and burn breakfast again, right, Marvin?”

 

“Right,” you reply. “Jason, can you set the table, please?”

 

He gives you a curt nod and goes into the kitchen.

 

“And make sure you get out the steak knives, please!”

 

“Whatever, Dad,” he calls back.

 

Whizzer raises an eyebrow, but shrugs and gestures to you. You follow him. He goes into your bedroom, puts his bag down, and sits down to take off his oxfords. Unlacing his shoes, he asks, “What was that about?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

He blinks. “Marvin, he’s clearly pissed off. What happened?”

 

“We—we just got into an argument. It’s fine; it’ll blow over.”

 

“You don’t look fine,” Whizzer says. “Are you sure you’re okay, sweetheart?”

 

“I’m fine. Really, Whizzer, don’t worry about it.”

 

“If you say so. Now give me a kiss, asshole! I missed you.”

 

A laugh bubbles out of you. “Oh, baby, I missed you, too.”

 

For now, when it’s just you and him, you can forget for a little while. You lean in close and kiss his soft lips. Maybe Jason’s not okay with his Daddy kissing boys, but you’re more than happy to do so.

 

Except you wish Jason _was_ okay with it.

 

Nope, nope, not now. For now, you focus on the man you love, whose infectious smile and gorgeous brown eyes are directed right at you.

 

You’ll worry about this later.

 

Or all night.


	2. midnight conversations and whizzer's observations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whizzer and Jason have a talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Falsettos. All rights go to its creator.

Marvin sleeps like a rock.

 

Unless, of course, Jason is involved. And Jason, being the short insomniac that he is, doesn’t always sleep through the night. You’re amazed that for five nights a week, Marvin can fall asleep in a three-piece suit and not move a muscle while you peel off his clothes and tuck your ridiculously hardworking boyfriend into bed. A fucking tornado could hit, and he’d probably sleep through it.

 

Not on Friday and Saturday nights.

 

On Friday and Saturday nights, Marvin wakes up if he so much as hears Jason cough. It’s not uncommon that you’ll find the two of them awake at 2 AM, moving pawns across the chessboard until Jason falls asleep against the arm of the couch and Marvin hauls him back into bed. Sometimes, you’ll find Marvin with reading glasses perched on his nose, reading aloud from _A Wrinkle in Time_. You wonder who the hell let him wear such atrocious glasses, but watching him with Jason makes you bite down your glasses critique. God knows Marvin loves his son. And God knows that something is very, _very_ wrong between the two of the of them.

 

“Are you _sure_ you’re okay?” you’d asked Marvin as you’d crawled into bed beside him.

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he’d replied.

 

Sure, he’d sound find to the average passerby, or Charlotte, Cordelia, and probably Mendel—the man has a good heart, but sure as hell can’t pay attention—but you know better. You’d become skilled at reading Marvin’s emotions. When the littlest things could set him off—well, you’d learned to gauge his moods by the way he slammed the apartment door. He’s very much not okay. But he’s also possibly the stubbornest man on the goddamn planet, so he’s not going to outright admit it.

 

“It’s just that…you don’t seem okay,” you’d said softly. “We don’t have to talk about it, Marv, but I just…I’m worried about you.”

 

“I’m _fine_ ,” he’d said firmly. Then he’d gentled his voice. “I’m fine, Whiz. Let’s get some sleep, okay? Love you, baby.” And he’d kissed your cheek and turned out the light.

 

You roll over in bed to face him. His jaw is slack and his curls are rumpled, and he looks almost peaceful. But his brow is furrowed, like he’s still worrying, even while he sleeps. Figures. He’s softer now, but he’s still a nervous wreck.

 

The sound of crying distracts you from psychoanalyzing Marvin.

 

Jason.

 

You’re half expecting Marvin to spring up and plod down the hall, but he’s _out_.

 

Yeah, something’s definitely wrong. So you drag yourself out of bed. Looks like it’s time for you to put your dad hat on. Are you too young to be a dad? You’re only twenty-eight.

 

_First of all, I was twenty-two when Jason was born,_ says the Marvin in your head. _So no, you’re not technically too old for that. Second of all, you’re pushing thirty, so you’re not_ that  _young. I saw the hairline, you know!_

Goddammit, Marvin.

 

Plodding down the hall, you push open Jason’s door. He’s sitting up in bed, crying like someone’s ripped his heart out. What the hell happened?

 

"What's wrong, buddy?" you ask softly. "Do you want me to get your dad?"

  
  
"No," Jason croaks, wiping away tears. He has a deer-in-headlights expression, and his cheeks redden. He clearly hadn't meant to wake you, or for you to see him crying at all. "No, no, I'm okay...."

  
  
"You don't sound it, Jason," you say, gently but firmly. "Tell me what happened."

  
  
"Do I have to?"

  
  
"I mean, no, but it might make you feel better. I tell your dad when things are bothering me, and he always helps me feel better. Do you want me to stay?"

  
  
"Yeah...."

 

You crawl into the unused side of Jason's bed and lean against the headboard. "You and your dad both like soft mattresses. It's how I could tell he was a softie at heart."

  
"You could not!"

  
  
"All right, maybe not, but your dad is a huge softie."

  
  
"He's mellowed out," Jason agrees. "He gives more hugs now."

  
  
"He really loves you, buddy. So do I."

  
  
"I love you guys, too,” he says, but there’s a catch in his voice, like he’s on the verge of tears. Which Marvin definitely was. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that they were at each other’s throats, but about what, you’re not sure. Marvin wouldn’t say.

  
  
"Well, you're a good kid. You're easy to love."

  
  
"No, I'm not. I called my dad—I called him, uh, the—the f-word.”

  
  
"You can say ‘fuck’ around me, Jason. I really don't care."

  
  
"Not that one. The—the other one."

  
  
Oh. _Oh._

 

He _didn’t_.

 

But it’s clear that he very much did, because Jason won’t look at you, and has curled in on himself. Anger coils in your stomach, because _how dare_ Jason use that word? Marvin is by no means perfect, not by a long shot. But God, he tries.

 

Seeing him at the baseball game—he’s changed. There was not one ounce of fight in his voice—okay, sure, he was still sarcastic as ever—but the malice and anger that used to be hidden behind every word was _gone_. Did he bitch about baseball the whole fucking time? Oh, yeah. In between flirting shamelessly with you, that is. But. _But._ He didn’t offer Jason the half-hearted congratulations he normally would’ve. Marvin pulled him into a hug and ruffled his hair and told him that he could tell Jason had been working on his swing.

 

That man loves his son more than anything. And based off of the way Jason’s acting, it seems like Jason threw it back in his face.

 

It’s a testament to how much you love Marvin as you realize how angry you are while you try to figure out why the ever-loving fuck Jason had decided to use _that word._ He’s too damn smart to not realize what it means. He’s also Marvin’s child—the kid knows how to wield a verbal sword almost as well as his father does. You’d almost spat out your wine when you’d heard ten-year-old Jason tell Marvin and Trina, “Just because you failed as parents doesn’t mean that I should have to see a psychiatrist!” Kid has guts.

 

He has guts, and a precise knowledge of how to wound his father, and fuck, you’re _pissed_. You should tell Jason off, and you’re sure as hell gonna—

 

_Ah ah ah_ , says the Marvin in the back of your head. _Lawyers don’t go into court before they know all the sides of a story, do they?_

You’re pretty sure that they do, actually. Except the extent of your law knowledge comes from Atticus Finch, so there’s that.

 

But you know Head-Marvin is right. Before you rag on Jason, maybe you should hear what he has to say. It’s something Marvin sure as hell wasn’t good at—but you weren’t, either.

  
  
"That's why you were fighting, wasn't it?" you say softly. “Because you called him—that name. Which, for the record, I never want to hear come out of your mouth again, do you understand me?”

  
  
Jason gulps and nods. “Yes, sir. On both counts!”

  
  
"Well, that explains a lot. And don’t call me ‘sir,’ that makes me sound stuffy and old. I’m twenty-eight, which is _not_ old, thank you very much." You sigh. "Jason...."

  
  
"I didn't mean to, Whizzer!"

  
  
"Jason," you say gently, but firmly, "didn't you? You don't say things you don't mean. We both know that."

  
  
"But—I—"

  
  
"Jason."

  
  
"Are—are you mad?"

  
  
"Honestly? Yeah, kid, I’m pissed as hell that you’d say that to your dad! Literally, Jason, what the _fuck_?”

 

He flinches when you raise your voice, and you take a deep breath. Fuck. You’d forgotten he hates when there’s yelling. Not that you blame him.

 

 “So yeah, I’m pissed off,” you say, taking care to gentle your voice. “But I’m also incredibly sad.”

  
  
"I'm—I’m sorry!" Jason's lip quivers. "I—I’m really, really sorry!"

  
  
"I can tell by looking at you that you are. But—I think you need to understand how hurtful it was to say something like that to your dad.

  
  
"Now, I'm not trying to defend your dad's actions. Some of them weren't okay. Us cheating, together, while he was still with your mom...that was wrong. A hell of a lot of the way he acted then was ridiculous and awful. He wasn't fair to you, to your mom, to Mendel—"

  
  
“—or to you," Jason adds.

  
  
"No, he wasn't. And on behalf of us all, I think that's an understatement."

  
  
"You're telling me."

  
  
"But," you continue, "what you have to understand, Jason, is that your father had a very difficult time accepting himself. He was in a lot of emotional pain. That's not a valid excuse for his behavior. It never will be. That aside, I don't envy your father being put in that position. There's a lot of—pressure, you know, to act a certain way.  Like how you think you might have to wear certain clothes to be cool? Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. Anyway. Your dad thought it'd be best if he—well, didn't act the way he wanted to."

  
  
"You mean gay, right?"

  
  
"Yeah, Jason."

  
  
"He wouldn't—he, uh, he wouldn't say it," Jason admits. "I kinda had to make him tell me."

  
  
"Well—"

  
  
“—he looked guilty about it. Like it was wrong."

  
  
"Most people think it is, Jason. Until about a year ago, it was considered illegal."

 

  
"But—why?  That's just—that’s  just how you feel! You didn’t choose that!”

  
  
"I know," you say softly. "Imagine being told how you feel, who you love, was illegal."

  
  
"That's—that’s not fair! You and Dad love each other!"

  
  
"Yeah, we do. Now, imagine having someone calling you all sorts of nasty names just because of something you couldn't control."

  
  
"Like when people call me—when they call me a retard, or a freak, or defective. 'Cause I get—how I get." He blanches. "Oh my God. I did that—I did that to Daddy."

  
  
You squeeze his hand. "Do you understand?"

 

Jason's lip quivers dangerously. "I—oh, God."

  
  
He bursts into tears.

  
  
"I need—I need to tell him I'm sorry! He needs to know, Whizzer!"

 

His breathing picks up then, and he starts _sobbing_ , shoulders heaving and snot running down his face. It’s when his breath hitches, though, that you carefully pull him against your chest. Jason isn’t always the most receptive when it comes to being touched. You try to remember what you used to do, back when he was nine and would crawl into yours and Marvin’s bed while Trina and Marvin had it out in the hall.

 

_Rub his back and sing to him or talk softly,_ says the Marvin in your head. _If he gets too worked up, he’ll make himself sick._

Well, yeah, you want to avoid that. Tentatively, you rub his back and try to get him to stop crying.

  
  
"You're going to make yourself sick, sweetheart,” you murmur. “Deep breaths, okay? You’re okay, I promise. It’s all going to be okay.”

 

It takes a few minutes, but his breathing evens out. You just keep reassuring him, running your fingers through messy curls, and praying to whatever deity there is that he doesn’t work himself up again. Then you’d have to get Marvin, and you’re not sure how well Jason would react to that.

 

Jason shifts in his bed, sniffling. “I—sorry you had to see that, Whizzer. Thanks for not freaking out.”

 

“Of course, Jason,” you reply, reaching over and grabbing tissues from his bedside table.

 

“Thanks,” Jason whispers. He blows his nose. “Whizzer?”

 

“Yeah, buddy?”

 

“Dad knows that I don’t hate him, right?”

 

“Of course he does. It takes a lot of energy to hate someone, Jason. I don’t think you’d be here right now if you hated him, and your dad would be tearing his hair out trying to fix it.”

 

 

“But—even after what I said? How does Dad not hate _me_?”

 

 

“Your dad loves you, and he knows you love him, too. He does. You can talk to him in the morning, okay?"

  
  
"O—okay. But he—you _promise_ he knows I don't hate him?"

  
  
"Yes, I promise."

  
  
"I don't want—I don’t want him to hate me, either."

  
  
"He loves you, buddy. I _promise_. He loves you more than anything, and he could never hate you."

  
  
"Do—do _you_?"

  
  
"Jason, no, of course not! But—look at me, sweetheart."

  
  
He looks up.

  
  
"If I ever hear you using that word again, you will be in _so_ much trouble. The punishment you got for sneaking off in the middle of the night will seem like a cakewalk. Do you understand?"

  
  
Jason blanches. “Mom made me keep _kosher_ for a _month_ and they removed my bedroom door! _And_ they made me miss the Rolling Stones concert with Leo and Heather! How could you top _that_?”

 

You smile wryly. “Believe me, I’ll think of something.”

 

Jason eyes you warily. “Whizzer, you’re definitely the Cool Dad, but you’re scaring me right now.”

 

“Then I’d better not hear that horrible word come out of your mouth ever again, should I?”

 

Jason shakes his head quickly.

 

“That’s not gonna cut it, buddy. I need to hear an actual, verbal response.”

 

“I understand, Whizzer.”

  
  
"Good. I don't hate you, Jason. I never could. But I'm deeply hurt that you hurt your father like that."

 

"I didn’t say anything awful to you….”

  
  
"When you use that word,  you’re not just hurting the person you intend to hurt, Jason. It’s a word that’s demeaning towards all gay men. That includes me, even if it was directed at your dad.” You pause. “I love your father more than I can say. I know it sounds cliché and ridiculous, but I hurt when he's hurting.”

  
  
"Yeah...."

  
  
"And I love you, too. I don't like it when the two people I love most are fighting."

  
  
"I'm sorry...."

  
  
"I know you are. In the morning, you and your dad need to talk. He deserves an apology."

  
  
"Yes, Whizzer...."

  
  
"You're a good boy, Jason. You have such a good heart. I think that’s why your dad and I are so…thrown off by this. Don't let this define you, or eat you up, okay?"

  
  
"Okay.”

 

He shifts in his bed again, and you can practically feel the nervous energy radiating off of him. You put a hand on his back.

  
  
"Try to sleep, sweetheart,” you soothe. “Just…try and take your mind off of it. I’d rather not deal with two grumpy, curly-haired Levitts in the morning!”

  
  
"Whizzer?” Jason asks softly.

  
  
"You want me to stay?"

  
  
A small nod. "Please don't be mad."

  
  
"Jason, I love you very, very much. That doesn't mean that I stop loving you when I'm mad. If you need me to stay, I'll stay, Jason. I always will."

  
  
"Please stay?"

  
  
"Of course."

 

Even if you’re cramped as hell in this tiny-ass bed, you’ll do it for Jason.

 

As you fall asleep, you wonder how the hell you got so lucky.


End file.
